The Touch of a Saint
by MarrieSue
Summary: The Sectumsempra incident during Draco's 6th year left him with unusual side effects. He could not feel pain, heat, cold and pressure. He could feel almost nothing. Then he found something else more potent than drugs: Harry's touch.
1. The Touch of a Saint

****Summary:** **The Sectumsempra incident during Draco's 6th year left him with unusual side effects. As a result, Draco finds himself gradually losing his 'senses' over the years after that. He could not feel pain, heat, cold and pressure. He could feel almost nothing. So he turned to drugs. Just so he could feel. Then he found something else more potent than drugs: Harry's touch. Because when Harry touches him, he could feel again.

**Warnings**: Disabled!Draco, Bottom!Draco, Dub-con, Dominant!Harry, Rough play, Drug use, Hints of open relationship(not between Harry and Draco).

**Disclaimer**: For the hundred thousandth time I don't own the characters, oh well, at least not those who matter! I wish I do but I don't! Even though I love them to bits.

**Author's notes**: The story was originally written for **HP_intoxicated fest**(on LJ). I took the liberty of using the prompt as the summary, because I think it sums up the story perfectly and, once again, I'm hopeless at summaries. **Appleling** - thank you for such a brilliant and original prompt (I only hope that I've made the most of it); **Gypsyraeyven - **my beta for her constant support (perhaps even supervision), hard work and cheerleading; and last but not least, **knowmefirst** - the mod, for her patience and understanding. Thank you all!

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><p><strong>The Touch of a Saint:<strong>

**Heretical Confessions of a Toxic Wizard**

"_All we have to believe with is our senses, the tools we use to perceive the world: our sight, our touch, our memory. If they lie to us, then nothing can be trusted. And even if we do not believe, then still we cannot travel in any other way than the road our senses show us; and we must walk that road to the end."_

_- Neil Gaiman_

Heavy curtains prevented even a small ray of light from shining in. While the room was poorly lit and bare at first glance, its occupier, whose presence stood out in sharp contrast to his shadowy surroundings, didn't appear to be affected in the slightest as he sat motionless in a mahogany armchair, watching the fire roaring underneath the mantelpiece from a distance. The air was sultry and oppressive, tangibly thick with stifled urges to vent emotion. Yet outbursts seemed out of place here, in a ghastly silence where only the occasional sizzling noises escaped from the fireplace.

Our hero was a frail young man, probably handsome at some point in his life, if the high cheekbones and well-defined lips were anything to judge by, but whatever boyish prettiness he might have possessed was long gone, replaced by harsh, pointy features, too thin, too pale, as though he had been worn out on a long hike and was now at the brink of exhaustion, overwhelmed by fatigue.

With his shirt unbuttoned to the waist he was caught in a swathe of faint orange light, his porcelain skin flushed and mottled, platinum blonde hair plastered to his forehead. Beside him an oval table was barely visible beneath a cluster of bits and pieces: a Firewhisky bottle and glasses, various objects on a wooden tray, and a silver bucket.

A sudden crackling sound split the silence, shaking the young man out of his dazed state. Rattled, he waved his wand and held out a half-empty crystal glass just in time to catch fresh ice tubes, then stared at it intently. The rich amber hue of its contents was a thing of such beauty. Before long the excess humidity had taken its effect, creating a slightly iridescent, hazy manifestation on the glass surface. Like a child full of curious wonder, who had found a new world and set out to explore, he ran a thumb over etching streaks of sweat, fascinated by the moist texture.

He shivered and raised the glass to his lips, savouring the sensation of icy liquor sliding down his throat before settling to start a slow, sweet burn in his stomach. Amid the gloom, smoke curled up around a small oil lamp, which threw out a feeble yellow glimmer in a hopeless effort to illuminate. Over the heat there rested a ceramic bowl attached to a long pipe with an ivory stem. He drew a dark brown pill from the various whatnots on the tray and crumbled it into the bowl.

A cloying, stupefying vapour filled the room until he was barely conscious of himself… It was so easy to let the world languish. He placed the end of the pipe into his mouth and with one long drag everything faded away at a rapid, messy pace. He fell into deep water… so deep that he could no longer distinguish between the past and the present. He blinked, as sounds trickled in and out of his consciousness, pummelling a relentless march which was only made bearable due to the callous nature of his stupor…

He saw the images of what he had witnessed, but through a thick veil, void of sadness and terror. Instead he felt good, jittery. _Heaven holds no pleasure of living, nor hell a haven to those who suffer. _He heard himself giggling…

Reveries were only another form of awareness. He closed his eyes and sank deeper into the leather armchair, prepared to be claimed by the familiar feeling of vertigo that overtook him whenever he lost sense of space and time. Little by little he was dragged into the most slothful indolence, a vast abyss between what he knew and how he felt.

Something crawled across his skin, leaving him itchy and heated in its wake… He looked down in bewilderment, suddenly alert and responsive. His eyes glazed over; at first he couldn't figure out why he was sweating, perspiration forming jagged paths down his glistening, unclothed flesh. Languidly his hand dropped upon heaving chest, fingertips grazing as gently and as slowly as the first snowfall. He tilted his head to one side, uplifted in the kind of contentment induced by delirium, in which no anguish ever afflicted his soul.

The sounds inside his head had gotten louder. _How odd_, he thought. He had never before heard yelling and heavy footsteps during his moments of indulgence. He struggled to sit up, trying to keep up with the latest happenings. It had become increasingly hostile. He could almost feel his eardrum vibrating to the pounding on the door. When it was forced open, piercing bright light flooded in like thousands of needles pricking his eyelids. He flinched, his eyes dry and sore, his vision blurred.

'Bloody hell,' he gasped, squinting into the blaze of light. 'Can't a man wank in peace?'

All at once the intruders stopped dead in their tracks, each staring at him in disbelief. As absolute stillness descended on the room, he burst out laughing.

* * *

><p>'Look at him,' said one of the black robed men, pointing towards Draco with a freckled hand, and the galled ripple in his voice rang like a bell. 'Why am I not surprised? The slimy git is a druggie. He probably can't tell what day it is.'<p>

'Gentlemen, gentlemen, if I may –' the proprietor chimed in, sounding annoyed.

Most people might wonder what to say, or whether to say anything at all under such circumstances. Madame Violet wasn't one of those people. At medium height, with long, thick brown curls neatly styled, and smart robes freshly pressed, she painted the very picture of respectability; to those who knew better she was an experienced businesswoman, well-versed in the needs of her clientèle, someone who remained sufficiently discreet and invisible until such an occasion beckoned otherwise, like now.

'I assume you're not here for anything as trivial as this...' she continued importantly, twisting a silk handkerchief in her hands. 'Besides, Mister Malfoy is in no condition to be questioned. Surely this can wait until tomorrow…'

There was a cough and a voice Draco recognised as that of Harry Potter said, 'It's not for you to decide what is incriminating and what's not. We're here because this place is under suspicion of illegal activities. From what I can see, dangerous substance rather falls under the category. Not to mention your establishment has come up in our report twice this month alone…'

'Obviously false accusations,' said Madame Violet defensively. 'There is no truth in it. I have nothing to hide.'

'What's all this then? Don't try to tell me those are Oriental incense balls burning?'

'I complied,' she replied coolly, 'with your request. I let your officers search the premises and you have found nothing but a case of pills. Now you are causing a scene. I've already stated my position on the matter. Mister Malfoy is not fit to go anywhere at the moment. You can't take him away while he's coping with comedown.'

'So you acknowledge the drug use?' another Auror, whose name Draco had forgotten, demanded.

'Mister Malfoy has told you before that he suffers from Hypoesthesia. Those pills are for medical purposes – '

'We're just supposed to take his word for it?'

'That's up to you, Mister Weasley,' said Madame Violet patiently. 'The specifics of Mister Malfoy's condition you will have to ask him yourself when he's feeling better. As for myself, like I said earlier, the most that you can do within the law is fine me…'

Draco plunged his head under the blanket Madame Violet wrapped around him to keep away the light and noise but it was of little avail, since Potter and his merry band of men seemed to think that he was obligated to take part in their ridiculous charade. He had no idea for how much longer the search went on, but the gut-wrenching nausea had already set in by the time they came back to his room. _Merlin have mercy_, he thought, arms folded across his puffed out chest, hoping they'd bugger off soon. He wanted to be alone until time ended…

'Hey, Malfoy... Malfoy!' someone barked near his ear. 'Wakey! Wakey!'

'Go get stuffed, weasel!'

'Resorting to name calling, are we?' said the ginger rat and Draco knew, just from his tone, that he was smirking. 'Get up! You have some questions to answer – '

'No – '

'You don't have a choice. You have to get up! We need to question you – '

'I said no, now GET OUT OF MY FACE!' Draco roared, searching for his wand. 'Otherwise, I swear – '

'You swear what, ferret? What can you possibly do when you're all curled up in a little ball, sniffing drugs…'

Who the hell had died and made weasel the man of the moment? Draco didn't give him a chance to finish. One thing he had learnt in his youth was that people tended to shut their trap – kind of difficult not to – with a wand held to their throat. He couldn't help wondering if it wasn't him who had gotten caught, would they be making such a fuss? Over a fucking case of pills!

'Mister Malfoy! Mister Weasley!' squealed Madame Violet, drawing the handkerchief to cover her mouth. 'Please, it's uncalled for – '

Potter, the Greatest Saviour incarnated since Merlin, according to '_From the Closet to Heroism: An Unofficial Biography of The Boy who Lived_', had apparently decided to interfere, taking it upon himself to step between raised wands. 'Don't!' he hissed, his words dropping like hot oil on fire.

Draco looked at him mockingly. _Good to know some things never change._

'Drop it, both of you!' said Robards, the Head Auror, striding across the room. 'I mean it. Put those away! We don't need that!'

'He started it…' the weasel argued, still aiming at Draco. 'What, scared? You should be! We've got more wands on our side…'

'Stop provoking him!' said Potter, shooting his friend a warning glare. He grabbed Draco's outstretched arm and pushed it down. 'Not a good idea, Malfoy, unless you'd rather get yourself arrested for assaulting an Auror.'

'Mister Robards,' said Madame Violet, in a scandalised tone. 'Is this how my client is to be treated? I am inclined to file an immediate complaint to the Wizengamot.'

'Alright, alright, there will be no need for that,' said Robards authoritatively. 'Let's go to your office, shall we? Ron, you're coming with me. No argument! If someone really has been reporting false crimes, I wanna know who it is that is so determined to waste our time and the Ministry's resources... Madame Violet, think harder. I want you to compile a list of names, competitors, customers or former employees, anyone who had any grievances against you… '

Draco hardly noticed as the Aurors followed Madame Violet from the room. Disorientated, his heart pounding from the unexpected sensation Potter had left on his arm a moment ago, he slumped back into the armchair, suddenly feeling the need for support. It was… too real, and too much like what he had remembered….

'Harry, you stay here,' Robards whispered, stopping Potter at the door, 'get Malfoy's story checked out and deal with him as you see fit.'

The Auror left and the room was once again quiet. Draco kept his lips closed even though he was laughing inwardly. Little did he know, Robards might just have hand-delivered him a way out of this mess...

'Are you all right?' he heard Potter say softly. 'Do you need a minute?'

'What do you want to know?' asked Draco.

'Err, ok, let's cut to the chase. Makes everyone's life easier.' Potter settled down into one of the chairs around the table. 'Who made you those pills? Did you make them?'

'Does it matter?' Draco muttered, neither confirming nor denying.

'Look, we can either do this here, or in a holding cell down at the Ministry. Your choice – '

'I haven't seen you in years and the first drink you offer me is Veritaserum? Very smooth, Potter, I must say.'

'This is an Auror investigation, not a negotiation,' said Potter in a clear, steady voice. 'You were inhaling – that alone means you've broken the law. The usage of Angel's Trumpet is heavily controlled and regulated. You can buy powder in prescribed amounts to make potions, but all other products are off limits. No healer in the country should have anything to do with pills made from Class IV substances if they value their licences.'

'Wow, kept yourself informed, haven't you?' said Draco dryly. 'I made the pills. Anyone can if you have moderate skills and a good recipe. They're for my own personal use. I'm not hurting anyone. What I choose to indulge in is hardly a matter worthy of the Ministry's concern – '

'What I don't get,' interjected Potter, 'is why you can't at least stick to the potions? You have a respectable job. You certainly don't need a lecture about the adverse effects. Why do you risk it? And in a brothel no less? If you have to do it, there must be a better place than this.'

Draco looked down, unwilling to admit to Potter that it seemed a convenient choice at the time; he couldn't take the chance of his parents finding out what he was doing, and Madame Violet was discreet. It was a beneficial arrangement for both parties.

'The draught doesn't work for me so well,' said Draco after a while. 'It hasn't for some time.'

'Well, if your condition is deteriorating, that's a matter you should take up with your healer. You may think you're not affecting anyone else, but that's not the issue here. Angel's Trumpet has to be handled by skilled medi-wizards, whether you agree with the law or not – '

'I have specialist knowledge!'

'You are a researcher, not a practitioner,' said Potter, emitting a sigh. 'And you're the patient, which makes you biased. You can't administer your own medication, especially when it's made from a dangerous substance.'

'Fine. Just tell me the amount and where to pay – ' Draco cried, his voice now shaking with anger. 'This is absurd! It's not my fault the law fails to acknowledge my needs – '

He paused mid-sentence, feeling extremely frustrated at being treated like a criminal. _Calm down_, he said to himself. Arguing with Gryffindors on principles would get you nowhere because they thought only themselves were allowed to break rules.

'How bad is your condition?'

It was the last thing he'd discuss with Potter. 'What's it to you?' said Draco, with a snort. 'If I say I can't feel anything without the pills, would you make the charges go away?'

'I can let you off with a warning,' said Potter, 'providing you check-in with your healer. You need to give me the names of your supplier, too, and whoever else is involved.'

'Really?' drawled Draco, light grey eyes narrowing. 'To what do I owe this… courtesy?'

'Umm, I've heard… about your illness,' said Potter awkwardly. 'I'm not unsympathetic.'

_That was the joke of the century._

Turbid thoughts raced through Draco's mind. He heard his teeth grinding, his gaze fell upon Potter's hands, rough against the damask table linen, reflexive but strong... then to his own, long, bony, protruding from shirt sleeves. He pressed them down, pushing and pushing until his fingers were bent and his knuckles were twisted.

Unexpected rage rose in white bright waves until he was drowning in it; there he was, face to face with his boyhood adversary, who glanced back across the table, healthy and whole, looking as though he actually gave a damn. It made Draco want to snap, to rip the pretentious mask off Potter's stupid face, because even if Potter could deceive the entire world, Draco knew better…

'You will let me go,' he smiled complacently. 'You won't charge me, or throw me into Azkaban.'

'And how did you come to that conclusion?' asked Potter, surprised.

'What's her name? Hazel? Heather? Quite a performance it was, not what one expects to find at the back of Knockturn Alley, you banging a blonde out in the open…'

Potter's countenance began to change, his eyes darkened, lips pressed into a thin line. In a cold voice he crackled, 'You don't know what you're talking about.'

'Does your weasel friend know you like to get rough with random trollop behind his sister's back in dark alleys?' Draco went on. 'You have it all on a platter – what drove you to do it? The weaselette holding out on you? She wouldn't play naughty games?'

There was a loud thud, followed by a blur of action: chairs falling down, bottles and glasses being knocked off the table and crashing to the floor while Potter lurched forward, grabbed Draco by the collar and pulled him up in one swift motion. Then he saw in plain sight something he had realised for a long time, that underneath they were of the same stock, blackened, damaged… one wasn't better than the other…

_Punch me_, Draco silently challenged him. _I wouldn't feel a thing; no pain, no pressure, no temperature…_

'You worthless prick!' Potter shouted, face inches away from Draco's. 'You never change!'

_Do they ever?_

No, that wasn't true because he did, in a manner of speaking…

'Cut me loose,' breathed Draco, pressing on. 'I'll keep your secret. We can't have the entire world finding out our hero's dirty laundry, can we?'

Potter's hands flew to Draco's neck and remained there, a darkly solemn expression on his face as if he was contemplating how much force it would take to strangle Draco who, in turn, recoiled... Not out of fear for his life, but at the crushing feeling of compression. _Impossible_, he gasped, _how was this happening_?

In utter shock he began to pummel anything that came within striking distance, twisting and jerking frantically. It was then Potter loosened his grip and let Draco collapse to the floor.

_What _was_ that?_

Forcing himself to concentrate, he heard Potter say, 'I won't arrest you now… But watch yourself,' then in a louder, more significant voice, 'because I will be!'

Silence fell upon the room after Potter had stormed out. Draco picked himself up slowly off the floor and dropped back into the armchair, completely lost in thought. The memories he had been holding back were threatening to resurface, bringing with them the hope he had long given up; that of being able to _touch_ where his hand had landed. For too long it had been easier not to expect a positive outcome than repeatedly being driven to despair by overwhelming disappointment, but now…

There was only one way to be sure.

* * *

><p>'<em>Disassociated Sensory Disorder is very rare and incurable. Patients' quality of life can be improved with potions but there are side effects. You may experience loss of appetite, nausea, migraine... Mostly it's down to you. You need to learn how to live without one of your senses… Unfortunately, the one you're losing is arguably the worst one to lose…'<em>

'_I've come for a second opinion,' Draco said heatedly, 'you just told me nothing I don't already know.'_

'_I'm sorry, Mister Malfoy,' the healer replied matter-of-factly. 'I know it's not easy for you to come to terms with such a condition…'_

'_Any theories on what caused it in the first place?'_

'_Could be spell damage, or poison, perhaps even a defect that wasn't previously diagnosed, set off by a trigger. We can't say for sure. It's a highly unusual occurrence, next to non-existent given the kind of sense in question.'_

'_I DON'T have a prior undiagnosed defect,' Draco spat, eyeing the half-witted man with displeasure._

'_Very well, have you been hit with anything lately?'_

_x_

It had been years since he last set foot in the Leaky Cauldron. He had difficulties with dexterity, and couldn't very well distinguish different stimuli; selective sensory loss had effectively rendered his other senses untrustworthy because they had heightened over the years to compensate, all of which made loud, bright, crowded public places potentially hazardous for him.

Even while on draughts he had good and bad days. Some days were more manageable than others; his limbs and body functioned better, although they took considerable time to perform ordinary tasks. When it was bad, he would knock things over, and bump into countless objects or people that came his way. Those days he felt like a prisoner in his own body, so he hid at home – at least there he knew the precise location of everything.

And perhaps he really was a coward, because he didn't want the world to see him handicapped.

But tonight he had a mission.

If he was right, he would know soon enough. He'd figured that it was best not to get his hope up lest he be disappointed once more.

Peering out from under a hood Draco decided that the pub was dark, shabby, stinky, and more raucous than necessary. Behind the bar a blonde, pink-cheeked witch took his order but didn't care to look twice at him the whole time. _She looks familiar_, he thought, as he wandered off with a Butterbeer in his hand. Draco wasn't thirsty; he merely wanted to blend in on this particular Friday night. And, ironically, had succeeded. Nobody seemed to notice a cloaked man walking in a pained, self-conscious manner; for all they cared he was just another merry patron too into his drink to walk in a straight line.

In the dim light his eyes caught a flash of flaming hair which seemed to scream, '_Here! Here!_' and gave away his target quicker than using a Four-Point Spell. Potter, in Muggle clothes, had his arm around one of the redheads.

He found a small table behind a half-filled bookshelf, likely unoccupied due to its isolated placement. Then he waited quietly.

'Ar, yeh should've seen Roger's face, I always knew he'd fall fer that – '

'… I don' reckon it'd be safe…'

'Honestly, get a grip – '

Draco paid no heed to the tawdry chatter. As close as he was to these cheerful, carefree people, he was in a numbing, distant place. Pushing the hood back slightly he glanced over and saw Potter whispering in his girlfriend's ear, who threw her head back and giggled. He waited.

'Why didn' ya charge Maalfoy da other day, 'arry?' wheezed the-brother-Weasley, thick-tongued. 'I'd let hiss assss rootten ein 'zkaban… Who gives a tosss if he' a sick puppy…'

Granger glanced around quickly and made a 'hush' sound.

'Don't think Robards wants that talked about…' said Potter irritably, pulling out his wand and plunging everyone around him into silence.

Their expressions, however, had revealed more than they realised; Potter and the brother weasel, both defiant, Granger, reproachful.

The Lovegood girl - whose mouth moved wordlessly below a warped shelf while a beetle bounced around on her hair band above - must have said something to lighten the mood, that they all laughed, along with the bar witch, now standing next to Longbottom. Even Granger pushed a strand of short, still bushy hair off her face and smiled.

He studied the worn wallpaper, trying to shrug off the stiffness in his chest. The group of them together recalled vague, indistinct memories that bore little association to the present. Sometimes he caught Potter's moving face in the _Daily Prophet_ and was reminded of a ghost he had laid to rest. Now he was calling upon a blast from the past out of his own freewill, and never so much had he missed his friends, with whom he now only exchanged polite correspondences. Except for Gregory, who trained security Trolls for a living. He was the only one who didn't regard Draco with his lips trembling like a fish out of water. Neither was he lugubrious, and it was oddly comforting. Sometimes, Draco had thought, despite his simple ways, Gregory might be the wisest of all of them.

His heart gave a leap. Potter had gotten to his feet, alone, heading towards the back. Draco followed, wand in his sleeve, until he was stopped by a group of wizards and witches keen to persuade him into joining their celebration. For a moment he lost sight of Potter, but that way led to either the bathroom or back door, so assuming Potter wasn't sneaking off, there was only one place he could've gone. Hurrying from the scene he scurried along the corridor, leaving a few angry people rubbing their shoulders, and came to a halt outside the bathroom. A man was whistling on his way out. Draco took a deep breath and pushed.

Potter stood alone with his back to the door, his head bowed low, washing his hands unsuspectingly.

Draco walked over to the basin. In the mirror a blue-eyed wizard looked back at him, brown brows raised matching his expression. He felt strangely calm, and he could hear the music from the pub, the sounds of water splashing and rushing down the pipes… Instinctively, Draco flicked his wand. '_Confundo_!' he whispered.

With a perfect, close-range aim the effect was instantaneous. Draco steered a confused Potter into a nearby cubicle, knowing that he had limited time before anyone else walked in.

'Who are you? Why am I here?' said Potter, ricocheting off the door frame.

'It's fine,' said Draco softly, pointing at the toilet seat. 'You had a bit much to drink. Just… sit here, would you?'

Potter beamed and did what he was told, leaving Draco terrified as hell. Only a trembling sense of triumph sustained him. He was being stupid. This was as good as a chance he was ever going to get, and Potter's friends might come looking for him if he took too long. _Oh, blast it!_

He knelt down and seized Potter's hand.

His vision had become distorted. Draco blinked but it wouldn't clear. Potter, under the influence of Confundus Charm, seemed to have found a new amusement as he pushed at Draco's cheek with one callused, moist finger. He wouldn't stop sniggering while he poked, each time dipping more wetness to every bit of skin he touched.

'Why are you crying?' Potter asked, wiping Draco's tear-stained face with the back of his hand.

_Was he? _Draco let out the breath he had been holding and gulped. Once the lid was taken off, he could no longer contain himself. It was too embarrassing, and the stupid grin Potter had been sporting didn't help the foggy veil in his eyes at all; if anything, he felt even more wretched. For all the pain and misery life had inflicted, it had to be Potter, it always led back to Potter…

He heard a loud gasp, and then he was swept into a tight hug, with a hand patting his back clumsily. It took Potter several attempts to lower Draco's head on to his shoulder. Draco, who was far too upset to care how much of the details Potter would recall later, sobbed into the fabric around Potter's neck in a tiny toilet cubicle. It was nice, to feel the warmness of an embrace that he couldn't otherwise seek from his mother…

_xxx To be continued... xxx_


	2. Heretical Confessions of a Toxic Wizard

He shouldn't approach Potter again before he had configured preferably several achievable and realistic plans. There was going to be hell to pay; he should know, after all those years at the wrong end of Potter's temper. Despite that, nothing had quite prepared Draco for the great eruption when he burst into Draco's office unannounced.

'WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?'

Damn! From now on he'd never make fun of Magical Law Enforcement. Draco looked up in alarm; how had Potter found out? He had bolted from the scene the minute he could, before Potter had shown any signs of recognition.

Patricia let out a timely yelp of surprise, her hands clutching either sides of the notepad, her gaze shifting back and forth nervously.

'What did you do when I was out?' Potter bellowed, ignoring the third person in the room.

'You must excuse my secretary,' said Draco, pasting a mask of indifference on to his face. 'Since I'm only here once a week, she doesn't get much practice in greeting guests… Patricia, leave us – seeing that Mister Potter has already made it through the door.'

'Shall I serve tea?' squeaked Patricia, quickly recovering from her shock.

'No,' Draco replied. 'We don't want to keep Mister Potter from his important duties for long.'

'Yes, Mister Malfoy.'

But Patricia, who never made a point of hiding her desire to bag a rich husband, had her eyes glued on Potter as she tiptoed to his side, her enormous chest pushed out. 'Mister Po-tt-er,' she purred, dropping her voice low. He gave her an enquiring side-glance. 'I'm a hu-u-ge fan. Can you please please sign my copy of your biography on your way out?'

'Mister Potter hasn't time,' said Draco, gruffly. 'Be a dear and run along.'

As soon as she had left, Draco came out from behind his desk and raised his wand, muttering a few spells at the door. Patricia was known for her love of gossip. Better to be safe than sorry.

'So? I'm waiting,' Potter's voice piped up, reverberating in the small office. 'What have you got to say for yourself? You think a little Colovaria to change your hair or whatever and I wouldn't know that it was you?'

If Potter had any proof, Draco thought quickly, he'd be in a holding cell by now or worse, staring down the tip of Potter's wand. On the contrary, Potter had come alone, and the air he carried suggested that he might want it off-the-record, which meant the possibility of mitigation.

'Didn't leave you out in the cold, did I? I had no choice, I needed to check something. Besides, the spell was lifted before I left…'

'Oh please, don't stop there,' said Potter fiercely. 'I can't wait to hear more!'

'… I needed to know if you can make me feel.'

Potter frowned at him. 'You've lost me. What the hell are you on about?'

'I felt. At Madame Violet's, when you…' Draco paused waspishly before coming up with a less dramatic description. 'When you held me up… Anyway, I had to find out if I was imaging things.'

'Ok,' said Potter succinctly. 'And were you?'

'No – '

'Then what does this mean?'

'I suppose… Maybe I could make a deal with you,' said Draco timidly, looking away as he realised that he'd never be able to get it out while facing Potter. 'If you and I come to an agreement, I can make it… mutually beneficial – you don't have to go to Knockturn Alley for certain things, unless you happen to like hanging around in dark passages…'

'You're not serious… Merlin! You're – '

How did others propose this kind of thing? Was there a subtle way of saying 'I let you poke me if you let me feel'? Draco stared at the leather binding of a book through the glass cupboard door, filled with self-loathing. Potter had money, fame, status; he had nothing else he could offer, which was a truly depressing thought.

'What made you think I'd be interested?' roared Potter, the malice in his voice unmistakable. It was a tense posture he held, black brows drawn down, the colour dangerously high in his cheeks. He glowered at Draco with his hands in tight fists, about to strike at any minute.

He should be afraid, _very_ afraid, knowing what the man was capable of. And with his pathetic physical condition he wouldn't stand a chance against him. His insides tingled with anxiety. It was as though he had been hurtling towards this point for so long and now he was at a crossroads, one path leading to a life he had come to know, another uncertain and obscure. All he had to rely on was the goodness of Potter, and whether the bridges were burned beyond repair… _Stupid idea_, he told himself, Potter wouldn't help him even if he collapsed to the floor this very second…

'You must be out of your miserable fucking mind,' Potter continued, anger flooding out of him. 'What made you think I'd have anything to do with you? You're lucky I haven't hexed you into next year after the silly stunt you pulled. Do you ever look at yourself in the mirror? You're nothing but a bag of skin and bones…'

Draco winced, but he knew he couldn't retreat. What if one day the pills stopped working? What kind of life would he be left with? The despair in his parents' eyes, their unspeakable guilt for what had happened to him; he could at least spare them the pain of outliving their only son. For the first time in weeks, months, maybe even years, he saw a hint of hope, the electrifying sensation brought by Potter's touch, which he would have done anything to feel again.

'It's Sectumsempra. After that I started to lose my senses – '

'You lying scum! Don't you dare try to pin this on me. George is fine, he still has all his senses. If this is some kind of retribution for what happened at school – '

At which Draco shrugged and pulled his shreds of courage together – where there's a will there's a way. Potter had forgotten one thing – Draco had seen him pants down to his knees bucking into a willing blonde. He knew what Potter liked. He knew how Potter misbehaved. He slipped and staggered and then, with a determined frame of mind, leaned in and pressed against Potter. They were nearly of the same height; Potter was shorter by one inch or so. Pale eyelashes flicked down. He placed his hand on Potter's groin.

'No – ' Potter gasped.

'Don't you see?' whispered Draco, as softly as he could. 'I can make it good for you. I'd let you do things.'

The last word had barely left his mouth before he felt a little jump beneath his palm, and Potter made an incoherent sound. Draco swallowed, long fingers tracing the outlines of flesh at its awakening. It was captivatingly curious; someone's flaccid sex enlarging to rigidity by the mere power of his touch. He stroked Potter through layers of soft cotton, until he shivered, pushing into Draco's grasping hand and beckoning a tighter squeeze. It was time.

His fingers fumbled along Potter's belt, peeling away trousers and boxers. Spluttering, Potter tottered backwards into the chair in front of the desk, a swollen rod springing free, by which time he seemed to have regained a little consciousness.

'No – Stop – I don't – ' he protested, catching Draco's elbow.

Draco didn't know what he was saying. He fell to his knees before Potter; he must be more abnormal than he thought, lips wrapped around another man's throbbing organ yet not feeling an ounce of shame. Why had he stayed to watch Potter rutting that blonde? If Potter hadn't caught him at Madame Violet's, he might have taken the sight with him to the grave. Potter was robust with bodily strength and vitality, his movements vigorous and sturdy, while Draco, on the other hand, was nothing more than a sickly, wretched mess…

The jealousy had eaten away at him. He had rubbed it in Potter's face, blackmailing him with the knowledge of that tarty little indiscretion, even though he didn't give a rat's ass to whom was sitting on Potter's prick. It was too soul-shattering, too unfair; realising the long and short of what could be called the story of his life: he always wanted what Potter had.

He felt a tug at his hair. Not sure if Potter was demanding his attention or pulling his head away, Draco dragged his tongue along the sensitive skin, licking his way to the head. Having found the glistening opening he lapped at it, tasting salty, slightly bitter drops at each swipe. He tightened his lips around the leaking head, grazing it over and over. Yelling and cursing, Potter begun to roll his hips, slow at the beginning but enough of a sign.

With new found confidence Draco took the slick shaft in his mouth again, one hand fondling those tense, heavy balls. He could swear they had a life of their own; every time he closed his hand around them, they would bounce against his palm, matching the rhythm set by the delving prick between his lips. Potter dictated the pace, taking more pleasure as he thrust deeper. In order to keep up, Draco sucked hard, his hand straying under Potter's shirt, where he found taut stomach quivering against his fingertips.

Potter smelt of sex, musky, overflowing, and his hips were bobbing in a frantic, crazed frenzy. Draco suddenly had an inkling of what was about to happen seconds before it did. Potter pulled and pushed like a bat out of hell, shoving as far as possible with an ear-splitting shout. Draco's eyes rolled into the back of his head as Potter came and continued to come, stretching and filling his throat: that was what Potter liked, ramming until the end, not a second before.

Panic started to well up inside him when he realised he couldn't breathe. '_Relax, just relax..._' Draco had only one thought left while Potter groaned and spilled. In sheer amazement he felt the engorged head probing soft palate tissues, shooting hot fluid all the way to his stomach as though Potter was making sure that his seed would be kept in.

When he finally drew out, Draco flung himself to the floor, resisting the strongest urge to be sick. His will warred with his unturned belly as soon as the first gulp of air hit his thoroughly abused throat. Then he heard Potter swivelling on the sofa. The rustle of Potter righting his clothes behind him, and Draco, now more lost than ever, kept thinking in his head:_ What should I do now?_

'You're always the same,' said Potter, after a pregnant pause. 'You only play nice when you want something. You needed your wand and you went out of your way to get it back. Once you had it, you turned up your nose and disappeared…'

'It's not like… you missed me…' snapped Draco, despite his better judgement. 'At least I send cards every Christmas. What have you done? So don't act like a long-lost friend.'

He regretted it instantly for the obvious reason that now was not a good time to pick a fight. There was a moment of silence. Draco peered up and found Potter shaking his head. His heart sank within him.

'Still a mouthy little shit,' Potter made a chuckling sound. 'I am not going to the Manor – find a place and owl me the details…'

Draco's eyes widened.

'And don't let me catch you doing pills again, I mean it,' said Potter firmly. 'I want the names, you know which ones… You can argue for all you like; it doesn't change the fact it's a poisonous substance, and you shouldn't be meddling with those pills in the first place – '

'It may be a drug to you. To me it's medicine – '

'Honestly, we've been through this. Do you really want to spend the rest of your days in a whorehouse, sniffing something that could kill you?'

Draco had to restrain himself from saying that between the two of them, he wasn't the one with expertise on the subject of whores.

'And what's more,' said Potter, with an air of finality. 'It can't be indefinite.'

'Naturally,' said Draco, disregarding the lump in his throat. 'When it's no longer a convenient arrangement, we go our separate ways.'

Potter gave Draco a suggestive grin, his mouth curling up at the corner as though Draco had said something amusing. He stood up, offering Draco a hand.

'That I can manage – '

Avoiding Potter's gaze Draco held on to the edge of his table and propelled himself up. He wasn't an invalid. One task at a time he would get there; he always did.

'Very well, the names…'

A quill appeared floating under Draco's nose. He glanced over; Potter had his arms folded across his chest, his face unreadable. _You'd think for a man who had gotten off ten minutes ago_,Draco thought,_ he wouldn't be hastening to demonstrate wandless magic._

_What an impertinent show off._ He wondered if anyone had ever told Potter that.

* * *

><p>The clouds lay over the sky like dustsheets. Wind, heavy with moisture and rain, blew in from River Severn, depicting the sleepy little village of Bushbury Hills in almost mystical reverence. In a steady drizzle which had lasted the whole day, even the magpies had ceased chattering but moped about on the wet lawn before a small cottage, pulling worms from the sodden ground and not having a care in the world about how droopy and woebegone they looked.<p>

Draco stared at the patches of grey sky between the trees. It was impossible to tell whether dusk had fallen. At least Neon, the house elf his mother had insisted on sending to help him 'bring that poor excuse of a house up to some kind of standard', wouldn't need to water the newly planted herbs and vegetables in the back garden tomorrow.

He waited with conflicting emotions. What if Potter had changed his mind? Or if what he offered wasn't enough to keep Potter interested? It was his own incongruous idea; he and Potter were like dry Sherry, simply wrong in nature…

Suddenly, from the fireplace there came sounds of something heavy crashing down from a great height, followed by a yell of pain. _Oh shite!_ The sound startled him a little. Draco got gingerly to his feet, hands clutching in pockets, just in time to catch the sight of Potter falling on to the hearth rug, face forward.

'Sorry,' said Draco quickly. 'It's not been lived in for some time. My house elf hasn't sorted the chimney out yet – '

Potter peered up, smeared glasses hanging at the tip of his nose, face black with soot. Needless to say, he was not thrilled.

' – the bathroom is upstairs, if you'd like to have a wash…'

Pushing his glasses back up his nose, Potter gave Draco a look of pure indignation and vanished up the stairs.

Draco listened to every sound that permeated his bedroom, heart pounding in his chest. When Potter reappeared by the door, he had removed his cloak. In an even, detached voice he said: 'What exactly do you want me to do?'

_x_

_It was like the back flashes of an old nightmare; for an instant he knelt over the wreckage of small broken shards of crystal, blood running down his face, there was redness to everything in his vision but he was too terrified to blink._

'_Young Draco,' said a cold, angry voice ahead of him. 'Look into my eyes and tell me, who were those people Greyback brought in?'_

'_I don't know,' the boy shrieked, his whole body shaking like a leaf in the wind. 'I can't be sure.'_

'_Which is it? You don't know, or you're not sure?' the snake-like human hissed. 'Choose one!'_

'_I don't know – I don't know – '_

'_I expected more from you, Draco. I chose you. But you disappoint me. I shall have to punish you – Crucio!'_

_A pale blonde woman plunged toward her son. 'My lord,' she cried, shielding the boy from further harm. 'He is just a boy. Please… Please don't hurt him… Please…'_

_He felt nothing. Something was wrong. The Dark Lord never missed a target. He screamed and screamed, contorting on the floor. Sharp glass shredded his skin but again there was no pain. He prayed for Merlin's mercy –_

_Please don't let the Dark Lord find out._

_x_

His haggard mind wandered on the long walk into nowhere. Potter's hands were blistering on his back. In the midst of his preoccupation, he wondered whether Potter always radiated heat or if it was another facet of realism his vacant sense had led his brain to believe. Potter had reassuring hands. Of course he did. He was the Hero Saint who saved them from the fate of serving a cruel mad man.

People had called him sadistic when he was young. They obviously hadn't seen him clawing under the Dark Lord's feet, fearful of being a failure, a freak, of being killed... None of which mattered anymore, it seemed so long ago. He worried about his next fix more than his nightmares; they hardly seemed significant in comparison, as though Angel's Trumpet had veiled the truth from his eyes….

Draco succumbed to the feeling of being warm and safe before he drifted into the darkness of his dreamland, only this time there was neither terror nor fear.

He awoke with a start, wriggling under the duvet. A grasp on his wrist brought him back to reality: Harry Potter was stretched out on his bed, leaning against a mass of pillows, peering down at him with his shirt unbuttoned at the top, a hint of black hair protruding from under its swath.

'How long was I asleep?' asked Draco.

'A little over half an hour,' Potter told him. 'Go back to sleep. I'll leave you to it – '

'I made a deal with you,' Draco argued, dragging his fingers along Potter's waistline. 'I intend to fulfil my end of it.'

Potter behaved well enough while Draco worked on removing his clothes with painful slowness. He lifted his legs so that his jeans could be slithered off. 'Must you wear that dress?' Out of all the questions he could have asked, he chose to enquire about Draco's attire.

'It's a nightshirt.'

'It's a dress – '

Draco took his prick, effectively shutting him up. Bathed in amber lamplight it looked less intimidating, still enormous even though it was soft, but Draco knew it would spring to life at a twist of his wrist, foreskin retracting to reveal a bulging head.

He had really come to be a common whore, as undignified as the girl of Knockturn Alley, who looked only too happy to get on her knees for Potter anytime, anywhere, any place, sprawling and bending like a spider under _Imperio_, moaning and begging for it. No, that was decidedly unbecoming.

It was too wrong. If anyone had told him that he'd be filled with the joy of living from below another man's belt, the sodding twit would not have lived to spread the tale. Who'd have thought the essence of existence emanated in the scent and warmth of another's most intimate place? But Potter tasted like life; he found the proof every time his tongue brushed over a pulsing vein.

'Stop – ' Potter panted, hands clenched in Draco's hair. 'I won't last if you keep going. Where's the lube?'

'I'm prepared,' said Draco quietly, rolling to his side.

'Eager, aren't we?'

Placing his face upon a plump pillow Draco closed his eyes. His words might have revealed too much. At least his thoughts could remain hidden.

'Still won't take off the dress?' said Potter's voice as he straddled him from behind.

'I…' uttered Draco in a feeble, muffled voice, 'don't look very good without clothes.'

Potter went still and suddenly his hips were lifted into mid-air, something pushing its way in, although it wasn't what he had been anticipating. His body jerked involuntarily.

'You're too tight,' he heard Potter huskily, 'I can barely fit a finger inside. What the heck did you prepare yourself with?'

'I used a plug – '

'Then you need to relax. Otherwise it won't fit – '

'It's ok,' whispered Draco. 'Open me up.'

And he felt the heavy, sinuous curve of a body tucking itself around the slight, pale edges of his. Potter had pulled out his finger completely; he stayed immobile, both hands on Draco's waist drawing him upright, yet keeping his entire body trapped beneath the feel of him. _What they must look like,_ Draco thought to himself, _scrawny and_ _pallid pressed up against tight muscle_. Potter nudged his legs further apart. He moved closer, hot and thick between lean butt cheeks, like a weapon that was about to tear, to destroy, to conquer…

Potter plunged forward without warning, ripping him in half. He almost collapsed into the mattress, overwhelmed with excruciatingly intrinsic agony. A silent scream stuck in his throat. Pain had never felt like this before.

'You're too tight,' Potter repeated, sighing.

Draco pursed his lips tightly and endured, blocking the wailing that went on and on in his head. His world had been divided into two; on the outside his skin hung on his bones like a shell, numb and unfeeling, whilst inside an awareness – a sensitivity – grew. In a voice that didn't sound like his, he finally managed to say: 'I can take it.'

'Don't want to hurt you,' said Potter, a little grimly. 'Let's try this instead.'

He began to make careful, shallow movements, stirring instead of pummelling. Despite his ragged breathing, his hips drove lazy, twirling motions as though he was waiting for Draco to give in, to stretch around him, to surrender.

'Better?'

'Hmm...' was all Draco said. It stung, but then it was better than nothing.

The friction thereby changed as Potter slid in and out, slowly building up a rhythm. The bed shuddered beneath them. Draco was dizzy, boneless; they were trundling down a rocky road, and off Potter went, fervently tugging on Draco's hips for leverage, pressing into him with long, even thrusts.

'You're so tight it hurts,' Potter whined. 'Try not to clench!'

_What was he talking about?_

Draco convulsed queasily. The next thing he knew he was flat on the mattress with his face down. Potter slammed back in, arched forward and pulled Draco hard against his pelvis. He heard Potter making that sound, a throaty wheeze, so close to his neck. When he came inside Draco, every inch of his body shook. Draco was helpless to do anything but lie there and feel every single one of the violent, agitated spasms that rushed through Potter into him.

For long moments they lay entwined in a state of breathing and heartbeats. Outside the rain trickled into the night.

'Sorry, I made you bleed,' said Potter, when he eventually stirred. 'Should I heal you before I go?'

Then the spell was broken.

'I'm ok… It doesn't hurt now.'

Draco lied. Something had retained... a little sensitivity, accomplished unintentionally. He felt cold, slick and tender deep inside his shell of skin.

'Was it really Sectumsempra?'

'Feeling guilty all of a sudden?' said Draco, with a half-arsed attempt at scorn. 'It's highly probable. Only a few people were capable of inflicting that kind of spell damage – this isn't a compliment, by the way.' He paused for a second, imagining the look on Potter's face. 'I can't prove anything definitively.'

'How diplomatic of you,' croaked Potter. 'To think that I was almost worried for a second – '

They glared at each other: Draco knew that Potter didn't believe him and that he would probably challenge his inference with the old argument that the older Weasley was hit the same curse and left relatively unharmed. Suddenly he was bored.

'Don't be,' Draco advised him. 'It's not important now. I didn't tell you that to get back at you, even if it may seem that way.'

'Has it been difficult for you?' Potter inquired, after a minute or two.

Draco peeked at his trademark earnest face and felt… frustrated. Did Potter really need to ask? How could losing his sense of touch have been anything other than difficult? Did Potter even know how it was like to watch his toes every time he crossed the road?

But no, of course he didn't. Potter didn't _need_ to know.

'If it can't be fixed, you got to deal with it.'

Potter stood with his mouth open but nothing came out. In the end he bent down and gave Draco's hand a light squeeze.

Hours later the bathroom was brimming with stupefying white smoke. Soaking in the tub Draco stared into the vast abyss of separation between illusion and reality. Water enveloped his body, rinsing every trace of awareness away, the little of it that was left behind. All he had was emptiness, the insuperable emptiness.

* * *

><p><em>He should have closed the curtains.<em>

The rising moon shone down on them like a new Sickle, dominating the night sky with an air of apathy, as though she knew everything that went on within her luminosity, and yet concerned herself with none of it.

Draco lay passively on the mattress, a fistful of bed sheets in each hand. The noises… they were everywhere, vibrating his bones, humming inside his head, all the result of having a hot, hard body crushing down on to him, whose heavy breathing had galloped into a husky, rhythmic whisper since placing himself between parted legs and forcing his way inside in one sure stroke…

His eyelids felt heavy, and the smell – pungent and heady, a peculiar mixture of sex, perspiration, alcohol, the lavender fragrance Neon insisted putting on the linen, and a faint flowery scent – filling his nostrils with each breath in. Potter hovered over him, thrusting with such force the wooden bed frame thudded. His knees wobbled around a pair of strong, solid thighs, very unlike his own, destitute of strength and colour, summing up their differences. If only that was all there was.

He'd rather be taken from behind. And that was how it had been between the two of them: impersonal, coordinated... a means to an end, although he hadn't the foggiest what the end entailed. One day Potter might be married, or find the arrangement no longer convenient; until then they continued to meet here once a week. Potter came and went as he pleased; sometimes early, sometimes late, sometimes reeking of alcohol, sometimes not turning up at all. Outside this house, their lives were two parallel lines that had no intersection.

Today Potter had a piercing look in his eyes. It didn't make any sense. Draco's nose never lied: Daisy, that was the faint flowery scent. He had a fair guess who favoured it, since he smelt it on Potter more often than other sugary, cheap perfumes. He didn't care – whoever Potter chose to bang was his own business. They were not lovers, not even friends, merely two people who had made a deal and were holding on to their ends of bargain, after a fashion – therefore, Draco wouldn't ask why Potter was so agitated coming from a prior engagement with his girlfriend, for the simple fact that it didn't concern him.

There was a sense of urgency; Potter acted almost… as if he really needed a release. Instead of stalling the message like a long-suffering barmaid, Potter told Draco to get on the bed the minute he walked through the door. His tone left no room for argument.

Draco complied. What difference did it make, on his back or on his stomach? But then he knew, as his legs were spread apart, that he was exposed, completely and utterly, nowhere to go, nothing left undisclosed. And when Potter pushed his knees to his shoulders, strong hands holding the back of his thighs in place, opening him up – a huge mistake, Potter had never gone so deep, and it hurt – but he didn't have time to worry about the pain, something else unsettled Draco, a nameless sense of foreboding he couldn't identify.

'Aw', a ragged breath escaped from his throat. Every intrusion, along with Potter's full body weight sinking down, squeezed air out of his lungs. Draco bit his cheeks, keeping the whole of what he was unwilling to give at these moments, inside.

It only got louder, the smacking sounds of skin on skin, so filthy, so rowdy. He couldn't resist; he had already given full access. In this position, Potter had gravity on his side as he withdrew to the tip, then plunging in, his hairy body slapping on to slender, smooth thighs, evoking an itchy, burning sensation… _Potter really lived up to his name_… Draco could do nothing, but let Potter hammer for all he would, stretching little bumps and ridges to accommodate his girth, blunt fingers digging into Draco's flesh…He'd bruise later, no doubt; at least Potter didn't have sharp nails.

Potter picked up the pace, pounding him into the mattress. Draco rubbed his face against the pillow and then he clutched, once, twice… the muscles and tissues invisible from outside clinging on to Potter's battering meat, grasping him, demanding by fate ordained…

Thrice… Potter let out an angry groan, cursing and hissing, with a final slam so deep that he breached the very end of Draco's tunnel and emptied his load… then came the part he actually enjoyed; the corner of Draco's mouth curled up in satisfaction – the moment when Potter tipped over the edge, hot spunk flooding inside him, and the pleasant fuzziness that went with it, washing the pain away. Potter didn't need to know, but Draco found himself secretly anticipating, looking forward to those few seconds of ecstasy, the gloriousness of being filled with molten heat...

Next to him Potter was panting heavily, as though he'd been running for miles. Draco waited for him to take his leave. Massage be damned, now he wished to be alone. Without opening his eyes he placed a hand on his stomach, lost in the somatic delight emanating from within. It would've been a blissful moment if he didn't hear Potter grunting: 'She said I don't need her – '

Initially he thought his ears were playing tricks. The mattress leapt with a light metallic sound. Then there it was again.

' – she makes it sound like it's all my fault, but neither does she need me – ' said Potter's voice.

_Oh dear._ Draco glanced across with great reluctance. Potter had his back against the headboard, legs crossed, his face smothered in the shadow.

' – ok, I know I've made mistakes,' Potter continued, 'the first time I was drunk out of my mind. I thought it was her. It didn't mean anything… She made me apologise time and time again. It's not like I don't make amends – I sat through 'Mione's tea and tongue-lashing, took punches from Ron. Just wasn't bloody enough. She keeps bringing it up every opportunity she gets. Then she tells me if I can't commit, we shouldn't be exclusive…

'… So I let her see other blokes,' said Potter, sounding defeated. 'I thought, she can have at it if that's what makes her feel better. Given time she'd understand everyone makes mistakes but it doesn't mean they will keep making them. What good did that do? It only made us drift further apart…'

His voice trailed off weakly as he leaned forward and looked at Draco as if he expected reply… _Merlin's fucking balls!_ This was a different kind of spilling altogether, one of which Draco did _not_ intend to participate in. Potter could _not_ be seriously seeking relationship advice from him.

'Would you… ' he began, his voice tight and coarse. He coughed, hoping that Potter would drop the topic once he had more drinks. 'Would you like a drink? Brandy's on the table.'

Pale, dappled moonlight poured in through the window, casting Potter's naked form in the softness of a painting. Draco watched in silence as Potter climbed back with a filled glass and downed most of its contents in one.

'How… did she find out?' Potter's gaze fell upon him, and Draco quickly added: 'The first time, I mean.'

'I told her,' said Potter, after a short pause. 'I don't know which idiot said confession was good for the soul – it's a load of crap if you ask me.'

_Quite..._

Unsure how to respond, Draco chose to remain silent. Girl-Weasley had worked him up good, otherwise he wouldn't have confided in Draco of all people. There wasn't much Draco could really say on the subject. He only knew how to provoke Potter, which buttons to push. Comforting didn't come naturally. Draco decided he should put an end to this fruitless dialogue. Maybe Potter could be distracted. At that, he brought Potter's hand to his lips and caught a fingertip with his teeth.

He took it further in his mouth, offering it the same attention he gave to Potter's prick, lapping it up, rolling his tongue at the tender skin between the fingers, tightening his lips around it every now and then. Potter moaned. It was working. Encouraged, Draco took another, swallowing them repeatedly.

'Stop – ' murmured Potter, huskily. 'I have a better idea.'

He leaned in and poured the remainder of his drink all over Draco's chest. Caught unprepared the nightshirt got most of it, now stained with brandy. Warning bells rang loudly in Draco's head. He was proven right: the brute who had always taken a great dislike to his nightshirt winked at him, reached for the collar of his shirt, and tore it clean down the middle.

'What are you doing?' Draco scolded, batting away a pair of wandering hands. Before Draco had a chance to escape he was thrown against the pillows with a heavy body pinning him down.

'What're you hiding, huh?' groaned Potter, deep in his throat. With curiosity he stroked the smooth skin beneath, his hand sending small shivers of sensation right across Draco's stomach. But that wasn't enough; he caught a tiny pink bud and brushed over it until it was perky and sensitive.

Pools of liquid moonlight glowed in Potter's eyes, pale and exultant, tangling with glistening emerald. Draco looked away.

Potter laughed and dropped his black mop of a head. To his horror Draco felt a thick, roving tongue on his bare skin, wet and hot. It brought the most staggering tingles. Draco gasped; everywhere Potter's hand roamed, his mouth followed. His body acted of its own accord, arching against Potter, who licked the hollow under Draco's throat as though he was tasting the racing pulse. Suddenly he froze. When Potter stilled Draco felt it, his wood that never flagged even once in Potter's presence, now poking into a solid thigh with pride.

Panic squeezed his chest. For weeks he had grudgingly given himself to the man hovering over him, while deep down endeavouring to preserve some semblance of his dignity. It shouldn't come to this. Draco jerked and kicked, in a tempestuous attempt to get away. Then it began to accelerate.

'You have weird foreplay moves – ' croaked Potter, holding Draco's flailing arms above his head.

Draco ignored him. With fervent effort he propelled himself upward. And then –

'Yes, more,' crackled Potter, whose body came grinding down to meet his in a heated, noisy collision. 'I could come from just this.'

They crashed against each other and a feeling of hopelessness spread through Draco as he realised what he was doing was essentially yielding to Potter. He couldn't stop it though, and pushed all the air out of his lungs along with a low, mewling sound.

'Feels so good,' Potter's voice echoed in his head. How could he be talking and sucking Draco's neck at the same time? 'What's holding you back? Don't you like feeling good?'

Pressure was building up, inside his belly, bollocks and between his limp legs. He felt a jolt of pure ecstasy – as sharp and as electric as pain – when Potter reached down and brought their pricks together in a fisted grip.

Draco whimpered. It was that novel and that momentous. He bucked his hips and let go.

When his consciousness returned, Draco found Potter regarding him with a sly, satisfied look, a hand glued to the pearly mess on his stomach.

'WOW, that was quite something,' said Potter, in a lazy, impertinent drawl. 'It was powerful for me too.'

Dread sliced into Draco's heart. _It really shouldn't have come to this. _He turned to his side without saying a word.

'What's wrong?' said that voice behind him.

'Go away.' Draco made a swishing motion.

'This is getting ridiculous. Now you're the devoured virgin? Surely you've been with people before you got ill – '

'Get out – Leave me alone – Get out – '

He pleaded for solitary with every fibre of his being. _Please, please go away –_

Deep in the woods of Bushbury hills, a spotty owl soared, silhouetted against the silvery moon. At first glance it looked to be hunting for its next meal, but then it swooped suddenly and landed on a branch near a dark window of what appeared to be a house in ruins. It turned its head, a faint light reflecting upon the round frames that, curiously, hung on the end of its beak.

The owl scanned the room behind the window, seeking out a face, a body, a flash of pale hair that would shine through the dimness… Draco, meanwhile, sprawled oblivious on the bed, slowly drifting into an immense black hole, where in its depth his other existence seemed inconsequential.

* * *

><p>'It's a terribly small house,' pouted Narcissa disdainfully, 'perfectly horrid. So shabby and untidy. I don't see why, in Merlin's name, you have to live in Wolverhampton… It's improper. People are going to talk. They will think we don't want you in the Manor – '<p>

'People can talk if they wish to,' Draco replied, cutting into a tender chunk of lamb. 'But I don't think they will. I mean, it's not like the Blishwichs advertised in the _Daily_ _Prophet_. The way they're carrying on at the moment – selling their portable assets by the bulk – a house hardly draws attention.'

' – you have a suite here – '

' – Where I stay a few days in the week – '

' – Or set up in a more fashionable town. You can do better than a dingy, damp house in the middle of nowhere.'

Draco almost sighed. His mother was a force to be reckoned with once she put her mind into whatever objective she had set out. Narcissa had been protective all his life; there was no chance of her stopping anytime soon. 'I like it there. It's quiet. Helps my research…'

'Narcissa, dear,' Lucius intervened, 'Draco is a grown man whether you acknowledge it or not. Let him have his space…'

'What if he gets injured?' said Narcissa at once. 'Who knows what might happen in that place? He needs someone checking on him…'

A wise man should know when he was beaten, especially by one's wife. The minute her eyes started to water, Lucius took it as his cue to retire back to his study, leaving Draco to deal with her alone.

'It's high time you find yourself a young witch with proper parentage,' she began again, a small victory smile on her face that said: _one down, one more to go_. 'Your father and I would be overjoyed to see you settling down.

Draco suddenly had a picture in his head of a strange, faceless witch hanging off his arm at various functions and dinners, and it unnerved him. Despite their faults, his parents supported each other throughout the highs and lows and remained faithful to their vows. A devotion to that extent didn't apply to him. Why would any girl wish to marry a man who couldn't even feel his own legs?

'Mother, it's hardly appropriate,' said Draco. There was no need to upset her with the entire truth. 'I can't expect a girl to enter into something that requires the commitment of a lifetime based on false projection. Besides, I'm fine by myself.'

Narcissa didn't rush to respond, but put her hand over Draco's. 'I thought you might already have someone… all that insistence on moving out,' she said, with a knowing twinkle in her eyes. Draco looked at his mother in confusion as Narcissa went on: 'You look healthier, and you're eating more. We won't mind if she's not pureblood. Your farther will come around if she makes you happy…'

'_She_ doesn't exist!' Draco roared with laughter.

'You shouldn't be alone,' Narcissa persisted gently, unwilling to digress.

'I am not alone. I have you and father.'

And more often than not, he considered himself a fortunate man for that. He ought to appreciate what he had, right?

* * *

><p>Before the first drops of summer rain, the air was fresh and exhilarating. Beyond and above the village of Bushbury Hills, the landscape had burst into an ocean of vibrant colours: orange, pink, yellow and peach, spread out beneath the bright blue sky and fluffy white clouds that floated past. Gentle breezes caressed the earth, bringing redolent smells of wild flowers, fresh grass and birch trees to heel.<p>

On a day such as this, the English countryside offered views so idyllic that its beauty and grace could sweep away the most dispirited souls. The house in the woods, which the locals always passed by without a second glance, appeared less formidable with a garden brimming with the early blooms of summer. It was a place of dreams; delectable, inviting, full of energy and excitement, yet exuding a sense of peace and tranquillity.

This was, if one could overlook the hurly-burly in the conservatory.

'It's enough – ' Draco whined, earning himself a slap on the butt. The current predicament put strain on his hands and knees as he tried to balance on all fours on a plain daybed stripped of pillows and cushions, but there was a more pressing issue: Potter's face was too close to his rear for his comfort.

'Patience,' chided the man, and he pushed two fingers far up into a squishy, oiled hole. 'You said you'd make it good for me.'

_How was playing with his arse going to accomplish that? _The complaint died in his throat, however, when Potter hit somewhere which left him shivering uncontrollably. It was a far cry from the butt plug that he shoved into himself without a second thought; the fingers bent and slid against each other, and he could feel those wicked digits twirling and rubbing that place, bringing the most wonderful, overwhelmingly sinful sensation…

Words seemed a useless medium as he failed to eloquently grasp the vague, surreal sense of happiness in his head – perhaps because his every thought and worry had been gently wiped away… Draco was sure that if he was given the choice, his toes would be curled up. He wanted to whimper; it had to be out of bounds…

'Feeling insecure again?' asked Potter, swinging Draco around.

And then it had gone from bad to worse – he was pulled on to Potter's lap with his legs wide open. Potter had a glare in his eyes, daring him to take the bait; the firm grip on his hips and the erection, thick and red – the shameless man gave a mighty thrust, with no specific purpose other than poking Draco's inner thigh – all delivered the message loud and clear.

Alright, if Potter wanted to see him wobble on that stick of his, he'd better not regret it later, Draco thought angrily. Once decided, he grabbed the swollen rod and lined it head up against his hole.

He squeezed his eyes shut while hot, hard flesh pushed past the ring of muscles around his opening; no matter how many times they had done this, the first few seconds were always challenging. Today the agony seemed to be heightened. Draco drew in deep breaths, trying to relax as he lowered himself further.

'You're not doing it right,' Potter moaned, tugging on narrow hips to direct Draco's movement.

Curses were flying out of Draco's mouth. Both hands pressing Potter down forcefully into the daybed gave him the leverage he needed and he sank down with a brutal thump. This time they both froze.

'You muppet!' Potter swore at the top of his voice. Too afraid to move, Draco felt every inch of Potter buried inside him and flinched in delayed shock. Potter heaved a sigh. 'Lean on me,' he told Draco in an even, reassuring voice, and patted his back as he slowly guided his head down onto his chest.

It was humiliating. Draco couldn't tell whose heart was pounding faster, except they were nearly nose-to-nose and he had never looked at Potter so closely, which brought another problem to his attention. In broad daylight everything was at plain sight; he could actually count Potter's eyelashes through transparent lenses, and when he glanced over black stubble he could almost feel the harsh drag of friction it left on his skin. And his lips... those thin, pink lips...

Draco let out a long, deep breath and began to relax, enduring the feel of Potter inside him. Potter gazed back at him, his mouth twitching at the corner, his eyes roving over Draco's face until they came to rest on –

_Oh Merlin!_

'Don't – ' muttered Draco. _Don't make this into something it's not._ But Potter held his head in place.

'I was gonna ask you to kiss me,' whispered Potter, sounding drunk with desire. 'I know you won't… so…'

With that he licked a lower lip, gently sucking at it until Draco's heart clenched up in his chest, and for a moment he was so lost that he was feeling both hot and cold at the same time.

'Please… ' a voice pleaded.

Something like an assent came from his throat and he felt a tongue sliding through his lips, soft, wet, and exploring his mouth carefully and thoroughly in a way that made him ache. When their tongues glided together, Draco wanted to rub against the body beneath him, desperate to scratch the itch Potter had inflamed.

Acting on impulse he arched forward a little, then pushed down. Potter threw his head back on to the daybed, whispering under his breath. Draco couldn't work out what Potter was mumbling. Neither did he care as he slowly writhed on the hard, pulsing meat, his movements becoming increasingly pronounced and erratic.

Then he heard a demanding hiss from Potter. 'Here,' he said, placing Draco's pale, bony hands on his chest. 'Ride me.'

Draco felt the brunt of it when he raised himself to an upright position, and it was terrifying, but if he stopped he feared that Potter would take over and the blunt stick might push his organs aside and drill all the way to his throat. Potter's chest hair tickled his palms. He had to carry on moving; at least then he could retain some control.

'Yes, more,' spluttered Potter, urging him on. 'Give me more. Fuck yourself on my dick. More…'

Potter pulled his head down for another kiss while thrusting upward. Draco screamed; his own throbbing erection caught between their bodies. And Potter continued to rock his hips, impaling Draco from below… His hands were boiling hot on Draco's back; he had Draco pressed against him so tight as though he wanted Draco under his skin, in his veins, his blood…

'_Cum_ on me, baby…'

The term of endearment flung Draco off the cliff. Who was Potter calling _baby_? A sudden chill swept over his body, leaving him cold. But then Potter was spilling himself inside him and he was burning again, consumed by a raging fire. He didn't know what to think anymore: it was all too bloody confusing.

Potter tilted his head to one side and Draco saw it right before his eyes, as tousled, sweat-dampened black hair fell aside. The infamous scar that had changed the course of many lives, now faded into a sliver of silver just like any other old wound… That wasn't who Potter was anymore. That was the old Potter. _This_ Potter was an insufferably kinky sod who liked to give orders. He was also the sad git who was destined to wed the Weasley bint no matter how many bits he'd got on the side.

Sometimes Draco didn't consider what they had to be sex; it wasn't sex as long as he didn't enjoy it. There were plenty of people out there gagging for it, but he wasn't one of them. He didn't want it, he _needed_ it, like medicine, like Angel's Trumpet pills, to prove his existence, even though it was better than any kind of intoxication he could ever lay his hands on. Because when Potter touched him, he could feel.

'Give me a minute,' panted Potter, warm breath skating over Draco's neck.

'I need to get up,' said Draco slowly, and the moment he peeled himself off Potter, every sensation on his skin vanished from the loss of physical contact.

_This is my life._

And it had to be enough.

_xxx End... for now xxx_

* * *

><p><strong>More notes<strong>

Dear reader:

I do intend to work on a sequel in Harry's POV - it shouldn't end here, should it? Also I played around with Draco's condition in order to make the story work. It's been quite an emotional journey for me to write a story featuring Draco's drug use and its effect on him. Many things, for instance, his symptoms, diagnose, treatments as such, are more fictional than factual. And the medical terms I've used do exist amongst us Muggles but the symptoms those terms describe are different from Draco's in one way or the other. That's all for now, I think. I hope you liked it. :)

Kind regards,

MarrieSue

(Just a small request: reviews make me work faster; no pressure, I'm just saying...)


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